Chapter 2: The Bookshop and the Bed He Remembered
The rain came down in sheets by the time I made it three blocks from the restaurant. Marcus had offered to drive me home, but I'd waved him off with a kiss and a lie about needing to clear my head. He'd believed me. He always believed me. That was the problem.
My heels clicked against wet pavement. The city blurred behind curtains of water, streetlights smearing into halos of gold and white. I should have called an Uber. I should have gone straight home. I should have done a lot of things.
Instead, I found myself standing outside a storefront I hadn't seen in three years, staring at the faded gold lettering on the window.
Bellwether Books.
The name hit me like a fist to the sternum.
I hadn't planned this. I hadn't even known the shop was still here. But the rain had driven me off course, and my feet had carried me down streets I used to know by heart, and now I was standing here, soaked to the bone, shivering, remembering.
The light was on inside.
I could see it spilling through the gaps in the curtains, warm and honeyed, the color of old whiskey and older memories. My hand was on the door before I'd decided to move. The bell above it chimed as I pushed inside, and the smell hit me first—aged paper and cedar and something darker underneath, something that had always smelled like home even when I had no right to call it that.
The shop was empty. Of course it was. It was nearly ten on a Tuesday night, and the storm had driven everyone else underground. The narrow aisles twisted ahead of me, lined with leather-bound classics and dog-eared romances, the armchairs arranged in intimate clusters like they were waiting for someone to slip into them and never leave. I'd spent hours in those chairs once. Days. Entire lifetimes.
"Scar?"
His voice came from behind the counter, and the years collapsed in a single heartbeat.
Oliver stood there with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, a book in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He looked older—we both did—but the years had been kind to him. More than kind. His dark hair was longer than I remembered, curling at the nape of his neck. His jaw had a shadow of stubble that hadn't been there at nineteen. And his eyes—those soulful brown eyes that had haunted every dream I'd tried to forget—were fixed on me like I was the only thing in the room worth seeing.
"Ollie."
The word came out ragged. Wet. I was dripping on his floor, my dress clinging to my skin, my hair plastered to my face, and I couldn't remember a single reason why I'd ever thought leaving him was a good idea.
He set the book down. The coffee followed. His movements were slow, deliberate, like he was afraid I'd bolt if he moved too fast. Smart man. I was already calculating the distance to the door.
"You're soaked," he said.
"It's raining."
"I noticed." He grabbed a towel from behind the counter—the same towel he used to keep there for me, for the nights I'd show up half-frozen from walking across town just to see him. "Come here."
I should have said no. I should have laughed, made a joke, told him I was just passing through, that I'd only ducked in to escape the weather, that I had a fiancé waiting for me at home.
Instead, I walked toward him.
He wrapped the towel around my shoulders, his hands lingering for a moment too long. He was close enough that I could smell him—coffee and cedar and that particular Ollie scent that had never quite left my memory, no matter how many times I'd tried to scrub it out.
"You look good, Scar." His voice was low. Rough. "Engagement agrees with you."
I laughed, but it came out wrong. Hollow. "You heard about that."
"Priya mentioned it. Ran into her at the market last month." He tilted his head, studying me with that quiet intensity that had always made me feel like he could see straight through my skin. "Congratulations."
"Thanks."
Silence stretched between us. The rain hammered against the windows. Somewhere in the shop, a clock ticked.
"You want coffee?"he asked. "You look like you need it."
"I look like I need a lot of things."
He smiled. That slow, knowing smile that had always been my undoing. "Some things don't change."
He turned to the coffee maker behind the counter, and I watched his hands move—the same hands that had touched every inch of my body, that had held me through nightmares and orgasms and everything in between. The same hands that had cupped my face the first time he told me he loved me.
He poured two cups. Black, no sugar. He remembered.
"Here." He handed me the mug, and our fingers brushed. Electricity shot up my arm, sharp and undeniable, and I saw his jaw tighten.
We stood there for a long moment, neither of us speaking, both of us remembering.
"You remember how you used to come crawl into my bed when he was passed out, Scar?"
The question hit me like a slap. My grip on the mug tightened.
"Ollie—"
"You'd show up at two in the morning. Three. Whenever he finally drank himself unconscious." He took a step closer. Then another. "You'd slip through my window because you knew I never locked it. You'd strip out of your clothes and slide under my sheets like you belonged there."
I swallowed hard. "That was a long time ago."
"Was it?" Another step. He was close enough now that I could feel the heat radiating off his body. "Because I still think about it. Every night. Every time I close my eyes."
"Oliver." His name came out as a warning. Or a plea. I wasn't sure which.
"You'd be so cold when you got there. Shivering. And you'd press yourself against me, and I'd hold you until you stopped shaking." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "And then you'd look at me with those eyes, and I'd know what you needed. What you always needed."
My back hit the storeroom door. I hadn't even realized I'd been moving, but there I was, pinned between the wood and Oliver's body, my heart hammering so loud I was sure he could hear it.
"I'd fuck you so slow, Scar. So deep." His hand found my hip. His thumb traced the curve of my waist. "You'd wrap your legs around me and pull me closer, and I'd give you everything. Every inch. Every breath. Until you forgot his name and only remembered mine."
"Stop." The word came out breathless. Pathetic.
"Do you want me to stop?"
No. God help me, no.
He read the answer in my eyes. He always had.
His mouth found my neck, and I made a sound that was half moan, half sob. His hands moved to my waist, fingers finding the zipper of my dress, and I didn't stop him. I couldn't. The gravity between us was too strong, the pull too inevitable. We'd been hurtling toward this moment since the second I walked through that door.
The dress pooled at my feet. His hands were on my hips, sliding down to my thighs, hooking into the waistband of my underwear.
"This okay?" he murmured against my throat.
"Yes." The word was out before I could think. Before I could remember that I was engaged, that I had a future, that this was the worst possible decision I could make.
He pulled my underwear down, and then his fingers were there, sliding through the wet heat between my legs, and I gasped against his shoulder.
"Fuck, Scar." His voice was thick. Hungry. "You're so wet for me. You're always so fucking wet for me."
He pushed two fingers inside me, knuckle-deep, and my knees nearly buckled. He caught me with his free arm, holding me upright against the door, and began to move—slow at first, then faster, curling his fingers just right, hitting that spot that made sparks burst behind my eyes.
"You remember what I used to do to you?" he whispered. "How I'd fuck you with my fingers until you came all over my hand? How I'd make you beg for my cock?"
"Ollie—"
"You'd beg so pretty, Scar. So fucking pretty." He added a third finger, stretching me, filling me. "And I'd give it to you. Every time. Because I couldn't say no to you. I never could."
His thumb found my clit, circling, pressing, and I had to bite down on my own fist to keep from screaming. The pleasure was too much, too fast, building in my spine like a wave about to break.
"You'd come so hard you'd forget your own name. And then you'd fall asleep in my arms, and I'd watch you breathe until the sun came up." His fingers moved faster. "And in the morning, you'd be gone. You always left before I woke up. But I never stopped waiting for you to come back."
I was shaking. Trembling. The orgasm was right there, hovering just out of reach.
"Come for me, Scar." His mouth was at my ear, his voice a ragged whisper. "Come on my fingers like you used to. Let me feel you."
And I did.
The orgasm crashed over me like a wave, pulling me under, drowning me in pleasure so intense I saw stars. I bit into my fist hard enough to taste blood, muffling the scream that wanted to tear out of my throat. My cunt clenched around his fingers, soaking them, and he didn't stop—kept fucking me through it, drawing it out, until I was limp and trembling and completely his.
When I finally came back to myself, he was still holding me. His fingers were still inside me, gentle now. His forehead pressed against mine.
"Same time next storm, Scar?" he whispered.
I didn't answer.
I couldn't.
The rain kept falling outside, and somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled—like the world itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what I would do next.